


The Stillness Collection

by chainofclovers



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Miranda means when she says she doesn't want to go to Ohio. What Andy means when she daydreams about sweatpants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stillness Collection

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT a story about self-harm or cutting. However, in this story, Miranda enjoys being scratched/cut/bitten during sex and this experience is somewhat fetishized. If any of these concepts are triggering for you, please take care when deciding if you want to read this story. Thanks.

February 2007

ANDY

Of all the fantasies Andy Sachs has about Miranda Priestly, the one where they’re both in sweatpants rises to the top. It’s not a sex fantasy, although they will have sex later that night. It’s not a food fantasy, although it’s just about dinner time and a pizza is on the way. It’s not a fantasy of the perfect family, although Caroline and Cassidy will come home a few minutes in, relaxed and happy. 

No, this is a fantasy of stillness. They sit close, holding hands, legs entwined, their bodies taking up about a third of the huge couch in Miranda’s den. Andy wears her favorite Northwestern t-shirt, the grey almost-threadbare one with fading purple script. Miranda wears a Bucknell t-shirt, because this is a fantasy (but even in reality, doesn’t everyone who went to college have a t-shirt from that college tucked away _somewhere_?). Their sweatpants are both from Andy’s own collection: she has given Miranda the newest ones she owns—heather grey, drawstring waist, cuffs at the ankles—because their fleece lining is the softest. They’re stretched a little tight over her hips, and when she moves an inch or so of skin between the waistband and the t-shirt is exposed. Miranda is shorter than Andy, so the pant legs are loose and long. Andy’s sweatpants are navy blue and so perfect it’s like she isn’t wearing anything but is magically warm. 

In this fantasy of stillness, time stops for as long as Andy wants it to so they stay put, a little tired but content to be tired, and the details pile on top of and around their bodies. Andy adds the warmth of a shared blanket, and can feel the way her upper arms are just a little bit cool at the places covered by neither blanket nor sleeve. She adds Coltrane’s _Blue Train_. She opens the curtains and adds snow if she’s having this fantasy in summer; summer lightning and smoldering greys if she’s using the fantasy to slip away from winter. 

They laugh quietly about almost nothing. They are both aroused but not desperately so, and besides, there’s nothing to be done about that for a few hours yet; the kids will be home from indoor soccer practice soon, and they’ll all eat together, sharing a pizza topped with fresh, bubbling mozzarella, spinach, garlic, and olives, fresh tomato sauce, and an herbed crust that crackles with butter and cheese on the outside and is perfectly soft within. 

Because of the nature of this fantasy, there is nothing they must do besides enjoy the presence of each other’s bodies and wait as long as Andy feels like waiting. She could dream of this for days. Miranda, solid and warm and tucked tightly beside her. The anticipation of seeing the girls and surprising them with the pizza. The satisfaction of knowing in advance how good dinner will taste. Arousal, hunger, a quiet house, exhaustion; they’re all so brilliant when sex, food, family, and sleep are your guarantees. 

The next segments speed up a bit, are less fleshed out, because Andy always dwells on the bundled-up-on-the-couch parts. But she knows the rest of the sequence: the girls burst in, hug both women, obey Miranda when she tells them to wash up for dinner. The pizza comes and Andy pays cash, tips well, is ridiculously pleased to live in a world in which a person can be paid to bring a pizza from a restaurant to one’s home. In this fantasy, Andy is home. 

Everyone eats two slices in the end. Andy and the girls help themselves to two straightaway, but Miranda holds off until Andy goes into the kitchen and returns with a second piece for her, kisses the top of her head and murmurs “eat.” It’s the work of a few seconds to clean up and send the girls off to bed and prepare for bed themselves—this is a fantasy—so suddenly Andy and Miranda are in crawling under the covers together. Andy holds Miranda then, holds her like she is precious and cherished, treats her with as much care as Andy wishes she could in real life, and gets her off in a simple way with her hand down the sweatpants, pushing the underwear aside and stroking her until she comes. Because this is a fantasy of stillness, it is enough to just lie together, Miranda’s hips and Andy’s right hand and Miranda’s mouth (“Oh oh oh”) the only things moving. 

_We could be there. We’re almost there_ , Andy thinks every time her imagination takes her through Miranda’s orgasm—unless she is interrupted, the fantasy always concludes with an orgasm for Miranda—and throws her back to the reality on the other side. And there she is, then, on the subway or at her desk at home or walking through the farmer’s market thinking—when she’s paying attention—half about what she likes and half about what Miranda likes, going through the motions of a day, mind entirely transported elsewhere, to a fantasy that is, actually, only a few steps removed from her actual life. 

Actual life: On the weekends, if Miranda has a late night but the twins’ nanny, Cara, is off work, Andy is the one who watches them. 

Actual life: If Caroline and Cassidy have a recital or a soccer game or school play, Andy, not their father, is always the second adult to receive an invitation. Their father, loving but distractible, and a bit less invested in the time afforded him by the current custody arrangement than he might ideally be, has somehow slipped to third. And, whether or not Miranda can be there (and lately she is there, nearly always), Andy tries to go. She knows now that Caroline is much, much better at music than sports, and that Cassidy is the reverse, but that they each enjoy both enough to continue together, at least for now. Andy relishes the afternoons and evenings she spends with them, and appreciates that Miranda works hard to make sure they are accomplished, almost in an old-fashioned sense. If they lived in Austen’s time, these girls would be masters at harpsichord and needlework, but here in 2007 they are appropriately sporty and artistic and interested in the world. 

Actual life: When the _Mirror_ folded just four months after Andy started there and everyone wanted to know why she was stalling re: finding other reporting work, Miranda was the one who received the tearful phone call in which Andy admitted out loud for the first time that she wasn’t sure full-time journalism was right for her after all. Miranda proceeded to invite Andy over for dinner that night, made her fill out online career assessments and a Meyers-Briggs test, put an arm around her shoulders as she pored over Andy’s resume far longer than she ever did when she was considering hiring her at _Runway_ , reminded her that no one was expected to have their life fully figured out by twenty-six, wrote her a check to cover two months’ rent, told her to take deep breaths and think, wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

As a direct result of that night, if Andy isn’t out with Lily or alone in her apartment, _breathing_ , she spends her evenings at Miranda’s kitchen table, working on applications for social work school while Miranda pages through the Book and the girls do homework. It’s a regular Priestly study hall in that room, and Andy is always invited.

And. _And_. When Miranda buys a sex toy or feels restless or has a new desire for what she wants to have happen to her body, Andy is the one who fucks her. Miranda was bored for years, having sublimated her way through three straight marriages. Now, although Miranda still wants secrets, she is done sublimating. She is, in her way, brave. She craves challenges. And, Andy figures, that must be why there are no sweatpants in their relationship, no long nights spent losing all sense of time. They have become people who read the bedbug registry and rent hotel rooms midday. A generous portion of Miranda’s body is covered in little scratches and teeth marks because she wants nothing more than to ask for and receive minor hurt in conjunction with major pleasure. Andy’s skin is more smooth and well-moisturized than it’s ever been because Miranda wants nothing more than to take care of her girl, making her glow with orgasms and massage oil. 

They’ve been fucking since Paris, had been fucking long before Meyers-Briggs and soccer and friendship entered the equation, and it’s been glorious. But it’s so complicated. Andy has that fantasy of stillness down to a science. She can turn her brain to that channel anytime, anywhere, even if real Miranda is in the real room with her. Real Miranda subscribes to a very different school of thought than Andy when it comes to sex: why get naked and snuggle when you could spend long minutes of lustful anticipation untying a tightly-laced bustier? Why lazily finger each other in bed when you could bend over an end table and beg for ass play? Why buy a one-button waterproof vibrator when you could buy a double-ended dildo and insist that it stay in both partners for at least thirty minutes no matter what? Why feel good when you could feel exhilarated, scared, and triumphant?

Andy can’t see a picture of a hot air balloon without thinking _Miranda would prefer that to a bed_. Once she gazed up at a skyscraper to watch window-washers dangling dozens of floors above solid earth and knew that Miranda would figure out a way to have sex up there. Just so long as no one could see her. Because for all that Miranda likes to be challenged and stretched, for all that she needs adventure, her every request is whispered. When she comes, Andy feels it rather than hears it. 

This afternoon, a Thursday, the fantasy of stillness occupies Andy while she waits in a tucked-away midtown hotel room for Miranda to arrive for “lunch.” Her grad school applications are due in a little over a month, and she’s spent the morning requesting transcripts from Northwestern and sending off freelance pitches to a variety of online publications, but she’s had plenty of time to book a room and daydream about the life she’s hellbent on living with Miranda just as soon as she can solve the puzzles that separate them. In the fantasy she’s just bent to kiss Miranda’s cheek and is taking a blanket from the back of the couch and spreading it across their legs when she hears three quick soft knocks on the real door. She hops up to open it, and accepts a kiss from Miranda, who rushes to throw her large bag down on the luggage stand and pull a padded velvet pouch from a zippered section deep inside. 

“Fuck me with this,” Miranda says softly, handing Andy a rather enormous glass dildo, realistically veined but shaded a very unrealistic translucent purple. When they’re at the townhouse Miranda can talk for hours about every social work program in New York City, the Oxford comma, pre-algebra, Lebanese cuisine. But in these impersonal rooms sex is the only topic for which she has any patience. 

Andy grins. Miranda is often clingy and sweet when she wants to be penetrated. She hopes that’s the case today, would love to bring a little bit of the couch and fleece blanket to their tryst. “You bring the lube?” she asks. 

Miranda shakes her head no. Andy is not surprised. 

“Okay,” Andy says. “Um. Get undressed and sit with your back to me.” Miranda wants these decisions to be made for her, to state the general thesis of what she wants but for Andy to figure out how the supporting details of how she will get it. “Usual safe word?” She feels a bit silly asking, but whenever this dynamic in which one person calls the shots is involved, she will. 

“Yes.” 

Andy rushes to undress, then peels the comforter and top sheet off the bed; she isn’t convinced hotel comforters are cleaned as often as they ought to be, and figures they shouldn’t add to the problem. Or suffer because of the problem. Ew. When Miranda has undressed and neatly folded her clothes, she sits on the bed between Andy’s spread legs and Andy eases her back, envelopes her in her arms. “Where is it?” Miranda asks after only a few seconds, craning her neck to look for the toy. She seems too tense to enjoy being held. 

“It’s right here beside us. Easy. You’ve got some time, don’t you?”

“An hour.” 

“Okay. Let me worry about that,” she says, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand and making a mental note of the time. “Just relax.” Andy wonders how much of the hour she can spend on foreplay. Miranda doesn’t think she needs it, but she will. This toy is bigger than anything they’ve used before. She runs her hands along Miranda’s abdomen, drums her fingers gently against her inner thighs. She brushes between Miranda’s legs to see how wet she is: quite wet, actually, but she still doesn’t want to try anything with the toy just yet. Even though gentle touches aren’t what Miranda has requested, they are in aid of her request, and Andy hopes she’ll understand that. “How’s your day been?”

“Bad,” Miranda murmurs. “Where is it? Let me see it.” 

So Andy grabs the toy and places it on the smooth expanse of sheet just in front of Miranda. “It’s right here.” 

Miranda breathes faster with the toy in view. “Please,” she whispers. But Andy is stubborn, and strokes her until Miranda’s nearly gotten off on touch alone before picking up the dildo and teasing her entrance with it. She is careful, wanting it to feel only good, although that isn’t really the point. When it’s several inches in, Miranda has to focus on slowing down her breathing to keep from hyperventilating. She opens her legs wider, clamps her hands down on Andy’s thighs. She will not say anything else until later, after Andy has eased the toy farther in and has thumbed over her stiffened, engorged clitoris for long minutes, two silent orgasms’ worth of minutes. 

“Scratch my hip,” she says finally, gasping for lost air. “Little fingernail scratches. Before you take it out.” Andy’s nails are short, shorter than Miranda would like, but she insists on keeping them that way: she’s not going to risk actually hurting Miranda on the inside. Still, she complies as best she can, digging little half-moons into Miranda’s skin with the hand that isn’t holding the dildo in place. There are a few older scratches in the same area; nothing deep, nothing at risk of infection. “Ahh,” Miranda sighs as Andy digs, and when she stops sighing and squirms Andy takes that as her cue to gently, gently remove the toy, taking care to rub its ridges against the most sensitive parts of Miranda’s entrance. 

_You’re beautiful_ , Andy thinks. _My love_. “I wanna pack for you sometime soon,” she says. “It’s not really my thing, but it’d be nice to be able to take you up against the wall, you know?”

“Yes. I want that,” Miranda says frankly. “Maybe next week. Do you have everything you’d need?” She has turned in Andy’s grip so she can rest her head on Andy’s shoulder and place her arms around Andy’s waist. The toy lies almost forgotten on the bedsheet. 

“Yeah,” Andy confirms. Some of their purchases live at her apartment so that Miranda doesn’t always have to be the one carrying sex toys around. “And you should try it too, some other day. That would be, um, really hot.” For some reason, despite the way they’ve occupied the last hour, it makes Andy blush to talk about it. She knows it’s hardly the raciest thing anyone’s ever done, telling her lover what she thinks is hot, but she can’t seem to shake the embarrassment that comes from speaking that way. 

“I will,” Miranda says eagerly. She might be the idea person, but she’s grown quite receptive to Andy’s thinking. 

Andy takes a deep breath. “And I want to take you to Ohio with me . . . sometime soon. My next trip.” Miranda groans in annoyance. This isn’t the first time Andy has made this suggestion. The first time, a month before Christmas, Miranda had responded with “lemon!” and laughed and Andy got mad and called her the Boy Who Cried Wolf and they had to come up with a new untainted safe word. “I do. Really. Just tell me why you don’t want to go.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Miranda sighs. She sits up straight again, extracting her limbs from the embrace. “I’m too old for you. Much, much too old for you.” She’s never said this before, not with such bluntness. 

“That’s . . . is that _why_? The age thing? I’m not too young to fuck you but I’m too young to introduce you to my family?”

Miranda lifts her head up and shifts so they face each other directly. “I didn’t say anything about your age.” 

“We’re friends, right?”

“Yes, of course we are.” 

“And we help each other. Like, you’re helping me with my MSW applications, for instance, which is so awesome of you. Not to mention the rent. The time to think. And I—well, I don’t know what I help you with.”

“You make my life interesting.”

Andy smiles. “Isn’t that the formula? We’re friends, we help each other, we fuck each other, life is more interesting together than apart. Isn’t that perfect?” _And I love you_ , she adds silently. 

“There is no formula,” Miranda snaps. She does not ask Andy what she wants, if she’d like to have more Andy-focused sex now that her own wishes have been granted. She does not apologize for her tone. Instead, she walks to the bathroom without another word. In the shower she takes care to keep her hair dry; she can’t risk looking different when she heads back into work. Andy waits for her like always, figuring she will shower later, at home. 

When they are dressed and ready to leave the room—they will exit the hotel through separate doors, and Andy will handle the room checkout online—Miranda asks Andy if she’s coming over tonight. “I don’t think I can,” Andy says quietly. She’d been planning on it, and Miranda knew it, but now she needs some time. Nevertheless, they kiss goodbye as they always do—the kiss puts a pang in her heart—and, as they always do, they make each other promise to eat an actual lunch.

MIRANDA

The last task of the workday is a showing at one of the new fashion co-ops in Williamsburg. Ordinarily, Miranda would send an employee there first to scout things out, but Lauren Given, a young Canadian designer, is unveiling a full line for the first time next season; Miranda wants to be at her co-op in person to see what she’s completed so far before anyone else lays eyes on it. In fact, Miranda is the one who requested the existence of this private event in the first place. A Thursday is rare, and 4 p.m. is a rather unsexy hour, but it fit in the schedule and Lauren jumped at the chance to have Miranda visit. In fact, Emily reports, she hasn’t once seemed nervous on the phone, only eager and confident. 

Now, watching the lovely young model hired for the occasion stalk around the small studio space in gorgeous outfit after gorgeous outfit, Miranda can see why. This designer, whose own sensibility is soft butch but whose designs are femme, femme, femme, is brilliant, and while she isn’t arrogant about it, she knows she has created something to be proud of. As for herself, Miranda is certain she isn’t just going weak; she hasn’t seen a collection this strong—or had a reaction this strong—in months. 

Still, even the innovativeness of the collection isn’t enough to hold the entirety of her attention. Somewhere around the tenth outfit change, Miranda’s eyes wander past the gauzy navy blue button-up minidress—it’s a street-ready feminine version of a morning after, one of those lazy mornings spent wearing a man’s dress shirt and nothing else—and onto the model’s skin. The young woman is Latina, Miranda believes, with impossibly long bronzed legs. Her arms are slim but stronger and more muscular-looking than that of most models, a strike in her favor. Her skin is unblemished, a perfect canvas for clothes, and Miranda thinks not for the first time about the sacrifices models must make to keep themselves “presentable.” 

Their routine, her and Andrea’s, would never fly for someone in that profession, someone whose skin must be a public thing. Because of that routine, Miranda’s torso and thighs and upper arms are perpetually scratched up and nibbled at and she’s sore between her legs half the time and that’s exactly how she wants it. Considering the amount of time she spends thinking about clothes as signifiers, this affair with Andy is the first time she’s truly understood what it means to want to alter the body as a result of an experience. Simply dressing in particular clothes isn’t enough. She appreciates tattoos and piercings now; she will never be a person to ink her skin but she wants something about her skin to change. She wants a burn beneath her clothes that is only for herself and for her lover. But if she were a model— _ha!_ Miranda thinks, _as if that ship hadn’t sailed thirty years ago, as if I were model material even then_ —she’d have to give up all those little marks the affair has left on her body. She’d have to be pure again. 

Miranda doesn’t even want to think about that happening. She hopes, somewhat guiltily, that she hasn’t done anything to jeopardize things with Andy. She’d been certain that Andy had planned to come over this evening, and will miss her now that she isn’t. So will her daughters. It’s been incredible to see their transformation over the last few months. Some of it is their own natural maturation process; they’re twelve now, more grown-up and involved in their own interests than ever. But they wouldn’t have the patience to sit around doing homework and reading night after night, together as a family, if Andy weren’t there so often. They scatter more quickly on the nights that she’s gone, retreat into their own thoughts instead of talking out their days amongst themselves. 

It’s obvious that Miranda has hurt Andy with her refusal to travel home with her. She’d been so surprised the first couple of times she asked—so surprised that this most recent incident was the first time she’d actually been honest with Andy about the reason why. Ohio isn’t the problem: Andy’s parents could live in Berlin or London or San Francisco and she still wouldn’t be able to fathom that trip. A public relationship—and more specifically a trip to Cincinnati—would only embarrass Andy in the end, just as soon as they got there and Andy noticed that her girlfriend (not that Miranda is her girlfriend) was the same age as her mother. She would give anything to be able to explain this to Andy in any sort of convincing way, since the age discussion they’ve already had isn’t cutting it: they cannot live their lives together. They can be together in compartments only: sex here, grad school applications there, soccer matches somewhere else. Otherwise, Andy will eventually be humiliated, and then Miranda will be humiliated too. 

The model goes still, hands on her hips, and her face relaxes into a genuine smile. Show’s over, personality’s back. “Thanks, Inez,” Lauren says with a nod. She turns to Miranda and waits, knowing better than to ask any questions. 

“Decent work,” Miranda says with a nod of her own. “There are some very strong pieces here. Some disconnects, of course, but this collection has potential.” Lauren’s face breaks into an enormous grin. Seemingly unable to help it, Lauren glances back at Inez, whose eyes are wide. Clearly Inez has modeled for Miranda before and has never heard her be so effusive. _How funny that three lukewarm sentences count as ‘effusive’ for me._ She considers again her hour in the hotel with Andrea, how hard she worked to stay quiet, the number of times she bit back the words she wanted to say. In her fantasies, Andrea makes her scream. In her fantasies, she is young enough to go to Ohio every Christmas for the next thirty years. 

Miranda turns to Nigel. He’s been sitting beside her the entire time, but his reactions to the clothes has been entirely lost on Miranda, so absorbed she was in her own thoughts. “Nigel?” she prompts.

“Fantastic work, Lauren,” he gushes. Apparently they are good cop/good cop today, for basically the first time ever. “We’ll be in touch about a spread.” This is a safe offer for Nigel to say, considering Miranda has practically shouted her approval from the rooftops, and considering he’s free. They’ve decided together that he won’t be working at _Runway_ much longer, for real this time. They’re just waiting for the right opportunity to come up. 

Lauren can’t stop flashing her boyish little grin, but it’s adorable rather than irritating. Suddenly, Miranda wants to out herself, wants Lauren (and Nigel) to know they’re in the same club, wants to pay her the best possible compliment: “I would buy this entire line for my girlfriend.” But Miranda doesn’t have a girlfriend. She has a fuck buddy, and a best friend, and a mentee, and something very close to a co-parent, and they’re all the same person. But she does not have a girlfriend, and Miranda says nothing else. 

When Andy calls her cell phone late that night, she picks up right away. And when she asks her to come to her apartment after work the next day, a very strong feeling tells her that she needs to agree rather than suggest a hotel. They don’t talk long after making arrangements, and Miranda wonders if something is wrong, something beyond the hurt feelings from before. 

It’s actually not a bad idea, just going to Andrea’s: they have a bit more time than usual, as they both know from having gone over their schedules together. The girls are in the current school play—are playing _twins_ in the school play—and their nanny, Cara, will be dropping them off after rehearsal by 8 p.m., her last duty before a weekend off. If Miranda hurries from work, they can have a couple hours alone together before they have to switch gears, and if she’s lucky she’ll be able to convince Andy to come over later that night, too, once Miranda is safely back home and can receive her as a guest. 

It’s only 5:15 on Friday by the time she hits the buzzer outside Andy’s building. There’s a slight delay before Andy buzzes her up, and she feels her heart start to beat faster as she slips inside and takes the stairs to the third floor, and faster still as she reads the hallway numbers on the way to apartment 312, a place she’s rarely been. She knocks, the door opens right away, and then Miranda is standing at the threshold of a small, quiet room full of lampglow.

It is obvious Andrea has been asleep. This is alarming: Andy hasn’t been very unemployed during this period of unemployment. Every day she showers and dresses, works on her grad school applications, writes, pitches stories, and she’s had quite a few articles placed, too. But today she looks groggy, and her face is creased on one side from her pillowcase. “Sorry,” Andy murmurs. “I didn’t even mean to fall asleep.” 

Miranda nods and walks toward the tiny bedroom, unsurprised that only the bedside lamp is on and the bed is unmade. As Andy gets back in bed Miranda notices for the first time that she’s wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underwear. Almost immediately, Andy curls in on herself, fingers gripping the bedspread. She is defenseless. Miranda’s heart, which has been hanging by a thread since their phone call last night, or since Lauren Given’s showing, or since the hotel yesterday, or since who knows when, breaks or falls or drops. Andrea is someone she cannot ever antagonize again, not in any real way. And all the scratch and stretch and release her body has been ready for evaporates and the only thing she needs is to hold Andy while she sleeps. 

Andy stirs when Miranda starts to take off her clothes. “I’m sorry,” Andy says again.

“What are you apologizing for?” Miranda asks, trying to make her voice gentle, and Andy doesn’t answer. Miranda slithers out of her blouse and skirt, leaves her underthings on, and slides under the covers. She reaches for Andy, appreciating the contrast between the slightly starched feeling of the sheets and the pliancy of her cotton shirt. 

“Sweetheart,” Miranda whispers. She can’t remember the first time she used this term of endearment, but has allowed herself frequent repetitions. She leans across Andy to the nightstand and makes the room dark. The lamplight from the living room carries a bit, giving the bedroom a surreal shadowy quality. “What’s the matter?”

Andy heaves a breath. “My mom called yesterday. My dad’s sick. He’s got cancer.” 

Miranda lays a hand on Andy’s shoulder and waits for her to go on, but she doesn’t. “What kind is it?” she finally asks. 

“Prostate. They caught it early, and it’s almost certainly treatable.” Her voice breaks. “But I don’t want him to be sick . . . ”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Andy sniffles, and they lay in silence. “Do you want to talk more, or to sleep more?” Miranda says after a while. 

“I wanna go back to sleep. But set an alarm?”

Miranda is sure she won’t sleep, but she sets an alarm for 7 p.m. anyway. She pulls the covers fully up over them both, throws an arm around Andy’s waist and tucks her other arm between them in as comfortable a position as she can manage. It’s strange to be so still with Andrea. She presses a kiss to the back of Andy’s shoulders and moves herself closer so that their feet are tangled, the bend of their knees matches, the curve of their hips lines up.

The next thing Miranda knows the alarm is going off. A knife slice of panic flies through her and she scrambles to silence her phone. “No,” Andy groans. “I’m still so tired.” She turns on the lamp anyway, and both women squint at the sudden brightness. 

“I can’t believe I fell asleep.” Miranda glances at her phone, wondering how she could have missed five calls and received two voicemails, then remembers silencing the phone when she set the alarm. The first message is an automated voicemail from her general practitioner’s office, reminding her that she has her annual checkup the next week. Fuck. The second is from Caroline, received at 6:50 p.m, informing Miranda that their rehearsal was canceled and the girls have been home with Cara since 4. They weren’t surprised that Miranda wasn’t home then, of course, but now they’re wondering where she is and if they should eat without her. Fuck. 

Miranda dials home. “Darling,” she says when Caroline picks up. She switches to speakerphone so Andy can hear the conversation too. “I’m with Andy. I’ll be home soon. Can you wait to eat?”

“I guess,” Caroline says. “Are you bringing her with you?”

Andy, still under the covers, though Miranda has stood and is trying to put on her clothes one-handed, smiles at this. Miranda raises her eyebrows. “Are you up for it?” she mouths, and Andy nods. “Yes,” Miranda says out loud. “We’ll bring dinner.”

“Okay, see ya soon!” Caroline hangs up the phone. Miranda shudders a little, and wishes she could retroactively provide a better example of phone etiquette. 

“If you’re all right with it, you can stay the night,” Miranda says. “You can invite Lily over if you haven’t told her yet. Or even if you have.” She can hear how ridiculous her voice sounds, almost shaky, the panicky feeling of waking up from an unexpected nap now replaced by the panic of being helpless against the possibility of losing Andrea to grief, or to the complexity of it all, or to the stupidity of her own habitual refusals. 

“Okay,” Andy says. “I’ll pack a bag.”

CARA

“Your sister is done with her homework,” Cara says calmly as soon as Caroline hangs up the phone and confirms that there’s no need to come up with a plan for dinner. Cassidy gets up from the kitchen table with a smug smile and flits away in search of a magazine. “If you go ahead and finish up your last assignment before your mom comes home, your whole weekend will be free.” After five years in childcare—two of those with the Priestly family—Cara has learned quite a few tactics for convincing children to stop procrastinating. In just two sentences, Cara has made a comparison—Cassidy is done with her homework and you, Caroline, are not—and pointed out, in statement rather than question form, that finishing one’s homework prior to the arrival of one’s mother is really a very solid plan. Caroline emits a resigned sigh, and Cara knows she is victorious. Now she just hopes her estimation was correct, and that both girls really will be finished by the time Miranda arrives. 

As Cassidy returns to the kitchen with her magazine, Caroline reaches into her bookbag and pulls out a packet of papers that comprise the Dalton School anti-bullying module. Starting this week, the sixth- and seventh-graders have been working their way through this brand-new month-long unit. They’ve watched YouTube videos, written analysis on anti-bullying campaigns, read articles, and kept a journal. Honestly, although both girls have complained that the unit is cheesy, Cara wishes she’d had something like it at that age. The twins are about to enter the toughest years of their lives from a social standpoint, and Cara is certain that if even a few of the anti-bullying lessons sink in it’ll make the “tween” and early teen years a bit easier to navigate. Cara’s twenty-three, has a bachelor’s degree in early childhood development, a long-term boyfriend, an apartment in Manhattan, blah blah blah, and she still shudders to remember seventh grade. 

The scraping sound of a Hello Kitty pencil sharpener alerts Cara to the fact that Caroline means business. Cara hides a smile at the girl’s familiar ritual and jumps up to the stove to refresh her mug of tea. “Mom’s bringing Andy home with her,” Caroline says when Cara’s back is turned. “They must have been somewhere together.” Cassidy giggles. 

“Well,” Cara says carefully. She sits back down at the table. “Your mom thought you guys had rehearsal, right? On rehearsal nights you wouldn’t even be home yet.” 

“True. You know Mom _likes_ Andy, right?”

Cara smiles at this. _Who doesn’t?_ Who doesn’t like Andy, she means, and she also means this: who doesn’t know that Miranda likes Andy? “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” 

Both girls are quiet for a while. Caroline reads a short article called “Inside a Bully’s Mind” under her breath, probably unaware that her mouth is moving, and Cara returns to the novel she’s been bringing to the Priestly house for weeks. She always thinks she’ll have more time to read than she does. 

“Cara, listen to this,” Caroline says suddenly. “‘Although cruelty to classmates is inexcusable, many bullies act out in school because of trouble at home, low self-esteem, or in response to previous instances of bullying in which they were the victims. Many bullies have been abused or bullied themselves. Bullying doesn’t begin in a vacuum: instead of condemning a bully for his or her bad behavior, consider that he or she is likely to have a history of serious problems. Some bullies cut other people down not because they feel big but because they feel small.’ Sound like anyone you know?”

“Wow,” Cara says, as non-committally as possible. “What do you think?”

“I think there’s a reason we’ve never met our grandparents. Mom’s parents, I mean. Obviously.” Caroline puts her pencil down, looks at Cara, then thinks better of whatever she’s going to say and rushes through the worksheet that follows the article. When she’s finished, she clears her throat. “Cass worships Mom,” she says. 

“I do not, Caroline—”

“And I used to,” Caroline continues. “But I know how she can be—”

The front door opens then, and Miranda and Andy are in the kitchen in mere seconds, followed by a pretty woman Cara has never seen before. All three women still wear their long coats, and they’re loaded down with white plastic take-out bags from a Thai restaurant Cara doesn’t recognize. Maybe they stopped for food near Andy’s apartment, or wherever they were. It’s obvious by the serious looks on all three women’s faces that something is wrong. “I’m Lily,” the pretty woman says when no one speaks. When neither Andy nor Miranda seem particularly embarrassed to have failed to make introductions, Cara knows there is a real problem. “I’m a friend of Andy’s.” 

Cara gets up to shake her hand and the girls do the same. They hug their mother and Andy while they’re up. Cara thinks, as she often does, about how natural Andy looks taking the girls in her arms. She puts whatever is causing her pain aside like a pro, infusing her embrace with genuine warmth. 

“I’m sorry we’re a few minutes late,” Miranda says to Cara. She’s rarely apologetic, even when she should be, but after two years Cara knows that lateness is one thing Miranda does apologize for. It’s only 8:10, but Cara appreciates the gesture. “I’m sure you’re eager to get home for the weekend but you’re welcome to eat with us.”

“We got some of everything,” Andy adds, her jovial voice a poor match with her drawn face. 

“Kevin and I have a hot date with Netflix tonight, but thanks.” Cara high fives the twins, reiterates a “nice to meet you” in Lily’s direction, grabs her novel, and heads out as quickly as possible. The tension in the kitchen is thick as soup and Cara is eager to get home. The delicious scent of curry filling the house makes her stomach growl, though, and as soon as she starts walking to the subway she’s going to text Kevin to see if he wants takeout. 

When Cara grabs her coat from the hall closet, Miranda comes up behind her, three coats in her arms. Cara has always felt a bit nervous alone in rooms with Miranda. She’s such a titan. Cara knows she is a relatively pretty person, but she always feels a bit short and chubby and awkward around Miranda. But tonight her boss looks utterly exhausted: her eyes are a little bloodshot, the skin around her mouth appears more deeply lined than usual, and her hair lacks its typical lift. “I transferred your paycheck to your PayPal account today,” she says. “It should clear by the end of the weekend.”

“Thanks, Miranda. I hope everything’s all right?”

Miranda’s voice lowers. “Andrea’s father is ill,” she explains. “She just found out yesterday. He’ll be fine—I think he’ll be fine—but she’s very upset. Thank God Lily is here to keep her sane.”

“Please tell Andy I’m sorry to hear it. And I bet she’s grateful to be here with you, too.” Cara attempts to get away with as much emphasis on the "you" as possible. She wants to know more details, but Miranda probably isn’t the person to ask. Besides, she has a family waiting for her in the kitchen. 

Miranda’s face changes. “Perhaps.”

“I’m sure of it.” Cara has seen the way Andy looks at Miranda. Miranda the good mother, Miranda the distant mother, Miranda the bad boss, Miranda the excellent boss, Miranda the bully, Miranda the love-starved little kid. She’s sure Caroline is right about that last one. 

“Goodnight.”

Cara’s head swims as she makes her way down the front walk, the cold air hitting her as hard as it ever has. It’s like jumping into a freezing cold lake—twenty-three winters down and she’s never figured out how to get used to that feeling. 

ANDY

Red curry is a balm. After having cried off and on since the previous night, the heat and spice work their magic on Andy’s congested nasal passages. Still, the meal is conspicuously quiet. Andy knows she should make more of an effort to involve Lily in the conversation, help her get to know Miranda and the kids on what is only her second meeting with the former and first with the latter, but there isn’t much of a conversation in the first place. 

“Okay,” Cassidy finally says. “So, what’s the matter with everybody?”

Honesty feels like the only option. “I just found out my dad’s sick,” Andy says. “He’s got cancer. I just told your mom and Lily—that’s why we’re late. Well, that and there was a line at the takeout place.” 

“That’s sad, Andy,” says Cassidy. Caroline nods as if to endorse her sister’s words. 

“Why don’t you tell us the plan,” Lily suggests. 

“Well, he’s got prostate cancer.”

“What’s that?” asks Caroline.

“The prostate is a gland,” Miranda explains. “In the, ah, reproductive system. The male reproductive system.”

“He’s having surgery in a couple weeks. That might do it, because the doctors caught it early. Hopefully. But they’ll re-evaluate afterwards and he might have to have radiation too.” 

Are you going home for the surgery?” Lily asks. 

“Yeah, I talked to my mom about it a little bit. I’m pretty free right now, you know? I can write from anywhere, and I won’t even hear from MSW programs till April or later. Even if I wasn’t free I’d be there. Surgery’s Thursday the 15th. I’ll get there that day or the day after, probably, and stay until a few days past whenever he gets to go back home from the hospital. I’m gonna talk to my mom again tomorrow and buy tickets then.”

“Good plan, hon,” Lily says. She turns to the girls. “Andy’s dad is tough, ladies. Goofy but tough.”

Andy smiles in agreement. “Yeah. He is.” 

“Andy?” 

“Yeah?”

Caroline slurps some noodles before continuing. “What do you need?”

“You’re sweet, Caroline. Honestly, I just need to think about something else for a while, enjoy dinner, hang out with all of you . . . and I’m gonna change into sweatpants the second we clear the table.” 

Andy does exactly that, too. After dinner, Caroline and Cassidy head upstairs to watch their allotted thirty minutes of television. At twelve, the only thing more embarrassing than having a TV ration and a bedtime is having to be reminded by adults about their TV ration and bedtime, so after their show is over they’ll brush their teeth and head to their bedroom without being asked. As soon as they’re gone, Andy takes her overnight bag into Miranda’s bedroom and gets changed. She tells herself Miranda and Lily will be fine on their own for a few minutes. Lily knows whatever there is to know about her and Miranda, and she’s sure Miranda has figured out that Lily has this knowledge. 

_I don’t have a girlfriend_ , Andy reminds herself sternly as she heads back downstairs. But tonight is the first time she and Miranda have been able to show affection for each other in front of another person, other than limited, platonic-to-the-untrained-eye interactions in front of the girls, and it’s so easy to accept the comfort that comes from pretending they’re together. Especially since it doesn’t feel like pretending at all. The women drink cabernet and talk—about Andy’s family, about Lily’s work, about the twins’ school—and it’s simplicity itself to sink into the feeling of their tangled fingers. Miranda’s grip on her hand tightens when Andy runs her other hand over her back, both women aware of the marks Andy has left there at Miranda’s request. A current ripples between them.

When it’s time for Lily to leave, her exit is preceded by a bear hug for Andy. “I’m calling you tomorrow,” Lily says. “I love you.” 

“Love you too, Lil.” 

Miranda leads her to the bedroom as soon as the door is locked. They’re both profoundly tired but it doesn’t feel like time to sleep. They look a funny match, Andy remaining stubbornly bundled in her pajamas as Miranda strips down. Miranda looks down at her own torso. “Oh,” she says. “I just remembered—I have a doctor’s appointment next week.”

Andy looks at her blankly. “Okay?”

“It’s just routine,” Miranda explains. “But I’d forgotten about it and there isn’t much time. I need to heal.” 

_Oh_. “Do you have any neosporin or anything?” 

Miranda nods and goes to fetch some from the medicine cabinet. While she’s gone Andy lies down on top of the king-sized bed, relishing the way the mattress is soft yet supportive. “Come lie down,” she says when Miranda comes back. Miranda stretches out on the bed and they stare at each other as Andy uncaps the ointment and dabs some on the tip of her finger. One by one, she coats every single scratch, nudging Miranda when she needs her to roll over. “We’ll do this every day. It’s okay.”

“You see—” Miranda starts, and turns away. “You see, when you’re middle-aged I’ll be dead.” 

“I don’t want to miss you now, when I don’t have to.” Andy prays they are having the same conversation. “Besides, nobody knows when they’ll die. My dad certainly doesn’t.” 

“I understand that. But if we do this—if we really do this—we’re going to have to reckon with these things, and not just in the normal ways.”

“Yeah. I know.” Andy wants to fold Miranda into her arms and keep her there forever, but she keeps her slight distance. 

“I’ll go to Ohio with you. When you go for your dad’s surgery. It’s all right if it’s too much to have me at the house. I can stay in a hotel. You know, if you don’t want to tell your parents with all this going on. But I’ll go.”

“Miranda, they already know.” 

“What?”

“If you had let me explain for once, back in the hotel—” Andy cuts herself off and takes a different tactic. “Look, I tell my mom everything. And it’s fine. Really. She has her reservations but she’s doesn’t exactly have a lot of emotional energy to devote to that right now.”

“And your father?”

“He’s a tougher nut to crack but my mom can figure that part out. You know, my dad always acts like he and my mom are this united front all the time. If he’s disappointed, he phrases it like they’re disappointed. But my mom’s sort of an old hippie. She’s the kind of person who’s actually happy her kid wants to be a social worker. Whatever misgivings she has, she’ll get over it. And you’re nothing like her, so it really won’t be that weird. But I don’t want you to come with me because you feel sorry for me. Seriously. That’s no foundation.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you. I am sorry, though. And I want to go. We can leave Caroline and Cassidy with John, or, more likely, with his mother. And if they can’t take them I can probably pay Cara to stay over for a few days.”

“Okay.” Andy lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Thank you.” 

“So, how committed are you to those sweatpants right now?” 

“Not very.” It’s true now, too. “But I did bring you some for our first Saturday morning together. Fair warning.”

“You had the presence of mind to pack extra?”

“I always have the presence of mind to think about sweatpants.” 

They are silent then. Tonight their only adventure is a planned trip to Ohio. Tonight a deep, close sleep in a bed is enough. 

CAROLINE

Caroline wakes up to the smell of coffee brewing downstairs. Cassidy is already out of bed, so without checking to see what time it is, Caroline heads downstairs. She hopes she can convince Mom to give her café au lait. She likes it best when it’s about 75% lait, but her goal is to enjoy 50/50 by the time she turns thirteen. 

“Whoa, what are you wearing, Mom?” Caroline asks as soon as she reaches the kitchen. Mom stands at the sink, refilling the kettle they use with the French press. She’s wearing one of her own rarely-seen t-shirts, but her legs are covered by weird grey drape-y things. Wow. Maybe Andy really hasn’t ever spent the night until now. Speaking of which, she isn’t sure where Andy is. 

“Sweatpants,” Cassidy provides helpfully. Smartass. 

“You look like you’re trying to be young.” As soon as the words come out of her mouth, Caroline wishes she could suck them back in. 

“Or comfortable,” Andy adds, walking into the kitchen with a stack of placemats in her hands. “You should be nice to the lady who’s letting me make you guys waffles.” 

“Really? Awesome.” 

“Yeah, but I need helpers.” 

The way they’re looking at each other, Caroline expects Andy and her mom to start making out right in the kitchen or something. They don’t. But her mom smiles as she puts the kettle back on the range, and it’s a smile Caroline can trust.


End file.
